Subject: Moroney's 'Satch report
Date: Mon, 11 Oct 1999 21:32:37 EDT
From: SKYTOP38@aol.com
HERE'S MY REPORT ON RUNNING THE WASATCH 100 MILER EXACTLY ONE MONTH AGO ...
I'M WARNING YOU, IT'S LONG!!!!!
In January of 1999, I walked to the Belgrade Post Office at lunch time with
envelope in hand and witnessed it shaking as I dropped it in the mail slot.
OK, I chided myself, now you did it ... you just signed up for something
really scary: The Wasatch Front 100 Miler, to occur September 11th, 1999.
Thousands of dirt, marathon, and ecstatic trail running miles later, I'm at
the base of the Wasatch Mountains on a cold, clear Saturday morning at 5:00
a.m. The pace of the 190+ flashlight-laden runners told me this was going to
be something different ... these folks were actually saving themselves for
the long run! Well, I tried to follow suit, but weeks of pent up taper
energy was putting me into overdrive. Eight miles & 4,000 ft. later I got
atop Chinscraper after gingerly stepping over loose rocks dangerous enough to
pick off a couple of threatening opponents ... only kidding ... this was not
a race to consider opponent territory. In fact I had been slowly running the
past 5 miles with a newly found friend, Pam Reed, a strong ultra runner and
grand slammer (a grand slam is when folks run four 100 milers in one summer)
who had beat me resoundingly in previous races. We stayed together and
shared stories of running and family, finding many similarities in our lives
and passion for running ultras.
After Chinscraper, the Wasatch Ridge opened up for miles of gently rolling
high country. Easy to run and gentle on the eyes, especially with the red
hues of autumn bushes glowing in the morning sun. 18 miles later we arrived
at Grobben's aid station ... namesaked for John Grobben himself, 'Satch's
very mellow and low-key race director who made running a race of such
distance and popularity look way too easy. He shook my hand as I told him of
my euphoria in being up there. And euphoria I was feeling indeed. I had a
sense that all the stars were in total alignment ... I felt strong, my
mercurial stomach was not giving any complaint, and the miles were going by
too fast.
Finally came Francis Peak, Bountiful "B," then Sessions Lift-off aide
stations ... these were the first of many stops where I was to scoop up
hundreds of calories in benign stomach soothing food: boiled potatoes,
bananas, crackers, pretzels. I'd stuff the goods in my mouth, giving a
chipmunk-stuffed-mouth utter of thanks to the wonderful aid station folk,
grab more handfuls of food, and was off. The ridge dropped gradually toward
stands of aspen and arid thriving pines, weaving in and out of little
coulees. At one point Pam dashed ahead and I thought I had lost her for good
... something I was becoming way too familiar with, but I was still in my
Julie Andrews state and couldn't be swayed out of it.
I ran with a man named Dan, from Sundance, for many miles. We heard bells
and voices in the distance, and I marveled to Dan at the enthusiasm with
which the upcoming aid folk were conducting themselves. However, I foolishly
realized the voices were those of sheep, explaining the bells (around their
necks). A sheepherder passed us with a look of twinkle-eyed amusement at us
crazy runners momentarily intruding up on his peaceful ridge. Later in this
stretch I met and ran with John from Manchester, England. He kept me
interested for many miles of running. Naturally, I wanted to discuss beer
with him and he did a wonderful job of describing Guiness from the tap in his
home country.
The first major aid station was Big Mountain (mile 40), a locality of
fair-type atmosphere where race support, food, and family and friends
abounded. Rick, my husband and crew, was waiting for me with Mac Burger
(plain) in hand. It was an item I would crave from aid station to aid
station. In addition to ibuprofen and caffeine-laden Coke those burgers sure
did the trick. Rick walked a way up the trail with me and the competitive
Liz had to ask the question .... "OK Rick, give it to me straight. How many
women ahead of me?" Rick says "Liz, you don't want to know." I say "I can
take it ... 10?" "Nope, way more than that." Ah, it's OK I say to myself.
I feel great and this is a blast. So down I proceed toward Alexander Ridge.
It's getting hot, but I don't object to heat like others. I see a woman ...
pass her after some pleasantries. Another woman ... same thing. I arrive at
Alexander and hear "hey girl, you look too happy." It's Pam, looking
overheated and nauseous. She has a friend by her side in like state. I wish
her the best as I head toward Lamb's Canyon and mile 53.
I pass numerous runners along this section, men and women alike who seem to
feel affected by the heat. I'm still in Julie Andrews state and even if
someone could keep my pace in that bunch, they probably couldn't stand me. I
read a message "kick butt, LM," etched on a bridge ... it spurs me on,
whether it's intended for me or not. I get into Lambs, put moleskin on a
nagging blister, do my usual stuff-mouthed routine and am headed toward Big
Water. A bit of road running through here, but I maintain a slow run pace
and enjoy the ultimate shade of late afternoon.
At Big Water (mile 62 ... the most I've ever done previous to this), I put on
my warm clothing (my drop bags looked like I was entered in the Iditerod, as
I get cold & hypothermic easily), eat a plate of spaghetti, 2 noodle soups,
and the usual potatoes and bananas. I put a flashlight around my waist, grab
a hand held, and head out on the trail toward Desolation Lake. Rick joins me
for a while, but I want to be pacerless in the night so he heads back after a
mile. The trail is of boulevard nature and in the twilight the lush
undergrowth gives off a deep green glow. Evening comes on ... a time when
the flagging fails to lead the way. Instead, at crucial trail junction
areas, glow sticks hang from trees leading the way. I pass a pair of runner,
one looking quite nauseous and the other looking concerned as he was probably
a pacer. My cheeriness is probably obnoxious to them as they quickly brush
off any offers of advil, electrolyte tablets, or tums from my pocket who I've
coined as "nurse Ratchet headquarters" over the miles.
Deep darkness is finally upon me before I reach Desolation Lake. I reach a
small divide and there is a glowing fire at Desolation Lake in the distance
with numerous cheery teens and a few older folks manning it. I am the first
pacerless female they meet and they pester me with questions transparent
enough for me to see they are checking out my lucidity. After assuring them
I do indeed have 10 toes, know my name, and can slog the night, they release
me. I kind of hate to go, though, as I am a sucker for a campfire and the
teens there are cranking out some pretty good blonde jokes. The glow sticks
start playing tricks on me ... sometimes I see them out in the distance for
what I think for miles, but in seconds they are just below my bewildered head
and the other is not too far off. I reach an aide station called Scotts Peak
and they inform me that the woman ahead of me is looking pretty rough. They
also tell me that if I didn't look and act so energetic, they'd have to keep
me there, but they give me the thumbs up and I take off with my mouth jammed
with potatoes and bananas. Yes, I'm feeling good, but I swear I never want
to see another potato or banana as long as I live, and I'm feeling cold creep
in on me.
Once in a while I turn off my flashlights and I gaze at the incredibly dark
sky vivid with stars. I think of my favorite poem, by Antoine de
Saint-Expupery, about how the people you love and miss are in the stars as if
they are laughing, and that's what carries me through. Finally, I'm upon a
road and despite the fact that I hate roads I relish this one because I can
run flashlightless. Again, I ponder the twinkling stars, and lose all sense
of time.
Rick meets me just before Brighton ski lodge aid station with lots of good
things to say about it, but I am still unprepared for its allure. I feel
like I am walking into a surprise birthday party just for me as the occupants
all applaud my arrival. In addition they have fried potatoes and thick
noodled chicken soup. The aid station ladies are like nurturing grandmas
...
they offer to rub your back, massage your feet, and hand you numerous warm
washcloths to wipe off the grime. I go into the bathroom to put on my
running pants and take a look at my reflection. Stan Jensen's sister laughs
as I remark at what a piece of work I am ... my hair has found every angle to
stand upright in and my nose is crusted with a day's hard working snot. Ah
well, I don't care. Rick leaves with me from Brighton and I am overwhelmed
at the initial cold, but he takes me two miles in and I am ready to do it
alone.
Ah, the night running beyond Brighton ... So blissful, scary, isolated, and
utterly different. I hold council with my confident and doubtful self
inextricably through these lonely hours. Nothing could compare. It's about
3 miles above Brighton that we all will reach our highest elevation -- Point
Supreme -- I know it's incredibly rugged out there so I try to conjure in my
mind all the incredible sea-of-mountains trainers I had done (days later I
peruse the topo maps of this area and I think what I could have seen wouldn't
compare to the SW Montana country I'd been traipsing all summer). In one
precarious section my waist flashlight instantly burns out. Oh well, I still
have my hand held. Minutes later I stumble and the handheld slips from my
grasp. Real life it took a fraction of a second ... delusional state it took
ages to watch the light skip along the path, falling millimeters from a
precipitous edge. I feel vulnerable at that point and pledge to grab many
handhelds next stop.
After the flashlight loosing experience I see another lone soul approaching.
Keep in mind that I've been slogging 85 miles, am feeling cold creeping into
my bones, and no longer want to eat, drink, or sing to the pitch black hills.
I have seen very sick people at each aid station and the cheery camaraderie
has worn off. But when I am feeling most lonesome, I spy this flashlight
closely approaching ... ah, some stellar ultra company. Well, the humanoid
approaches, hunched, heavy footed, and breathing heavily ... I say "How's it
going?" with efforted enthusiasm (I so want to make a friend!) ... He replies
with an indecipherable "eeeoaughhhh!" I willingly let him pass. Ten minutes
later another potential ultra buddy approaches. Before I can utter anything
enthusiastic, he says in an almost preteen, crack-voiced tone "keep on
rockin', baby!!!" Ewwww, I think .... don't want this kind of company.
Well, I am happier in my loneness after that. Couldn't take another weirdo.
At Pole Line Pass aid station I finally meet the woman who was referred to as
being so ill. She has a pacer who does most of the talking for her, but when
she does speak, her language would almost indicate that she has put away
upwards of a six-pac of beer. After we introduce ourselves, Betsy ditches
off to the woods to puke for the umpteenth time. Later I learn that Betsy
slipped and fell on a stretch known as ball-bearing pitch (very downhill) and
may have fractured her pelvic bone.
The 2nd to last aid station, named Mill Canyon, has so little to offer in the
way of enticing food. I grab a handful of fig newtons, figuring their
newness will get me through the last 12 miles. I choke one down, take twice
as long to do the 2nd, but the 3rd swims around in my mouth for an
insurmountable time. I get it down halfway, but rush toward the side of the
dirt road to rid it and the previously mentioned two. Well, that's the last
of the food-stuffing, I say, but I can make it. Rick meets me two miles
before Alpine Loop Summit -- mile 93 -- and I am pretty cranky. He says
benign, mellowly encouraging things, but I mildly bite his head off
nonetheless. At one point I even accuse him of leading me back out on the
trail where we came from. After a mile of this, I give myself a private
talking to and pull myself out of it.
Upon arriving at Alpine Loop, I tell Rick I want to run out of there alone
... no pack, no company. I have my hand holster for a water bottle in my
drop bag, fill it, miraculously get a whole banana down, and take to the
lush, fern laden, slightly downhill trail. I set up a scenario in my head
where I have just woken up and this is a mere seven mile run in the woods
near my home. It works on my disillusioned brain and I fly the first three
miles, belting out Beatles tunes to myself just to pass the time. The going
gets rough the last four miles, though I still manage a half run and pass
three runners I met in the night (no weirdoes)! The ending is a wayward maze
of foot trails, but I finally reach the finish line and revel in the glory of
having completed 100 miles in a predominantly happy state. Ten minutes later
I discover I was 3rd woman, and 21st overall among the 140 finishers, which
was icing on the cake for such a great experience.
Will I do another one? ... most definitely yes! I wouldn't care if the only
event I run is a 100 miler next year. I felt like a kid in a candy store
pondering over the choices for next year, and I think I'll do Leadville in
Colorado. I dream of doing Hardrock, the toughest of them all, but I want to
mess around with elevation before committing to Hardrock in 2001?
How did I feel afterwards? Very sore on Sunday, better on Monday, and I
hardly felt like I did anything on Tuesday. The Sunday night of lengthy and
deep sleep had a lot to do with recovery, I am sure. My Friends, family, and
students were really excited for me and I retold the story of it numerous
times over upon my return to life in Montana.